


So a Hunter and a Warlock Walk Into a Bar...

by nu_breed



Category: Merlin (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s05e13 The Diamond of the Day, Episode: s05e22 Swan Song, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-24
Updated: 2011-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-23 06:09:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nu_breed/pseuds/nu_breed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin's been alone for centuries when he meets someone in a dive bar in North America who reminds Merlin far too much of Arthur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So a Hunter and a Warlock Walk Into a Bar...

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so [](http://spasticat.livejournal.com/profile)[**spasticat**](http://spasticat.livejournal.com/) asked for Merlin/Dean on a drabble prompt and this is what came out. Much more than a drabble, which surprised me. It's mostly Merlin/Arthur with Wincesty undertones, really. Excuse the incredibly lame title, I was coming up a complete blank. Also, unbetaed.

He has the worst pick-up lines that Merlin's heard in 5000 years or more, worse than Gwaine even, which is saying something. But he's startlingly, inhumanly gorgeous, so he's willing to let pretty much anything this bloke does slide.

Up until the moment he whispers something that sounds like "Bristol" and shoves a crucifix in Merlin's face.

"Huh," the guy says, not moving, his forehead wrinkled in concentration before his brow smoothes out and he shrugs. "Guess I was wrong then. Sorry, I guess."

Merlin takes the opportunity and pulls the crucifix free of those long, slender fingers. He doesn't fail to notice the silver ring that looks like the one that used to feel so cool against his skin when Arthur's hands were on him, touching him.

He takes a sip of his awful American beer, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Do you find this approach usually works?" Merlin asks, placing the crucifix on the bar, "assaulting potential sex partners with religious objects?"

"Sounds kinky." The bloke smirks, and he looks so much like Arthur then that it makes Merlin's stomach roil and his throat go dry.

"I'm not a demon," Merlin says, almost brusquely, trying to ignore the way this guy is making him feel. "I would have thought that might've been obvious from the fact that I haven't spat out that vile holy water-flavoured beer, though the taste is an improvement on what you Americans call beer, I must say."

"Listen—"

"Merlin."

"Merlin? Really? Parents lost a bet, huh?" He throws his head back and laughs, full and throaty, and Merlin has to look away. "No offense, man, but that's a really fucking dorky name. Guess it matches the ears, though."

"Oi!"

He claps Merlin on the shoulder, "Just kidding. Mostly." He shakes Merlin's hand, and stares at him for much too long. "Name's Dean. Dean Winchester."

"So what's with the eyes then?" Dean asks, downing a shot of amber-coloured liquid and Merlin can't help staring at the long arch of his neck when he swallows.

"Ah. Well." Merlin waves his hand and Dean's shot glass is suddenly full again.

He chuckles. "Not bad, English, not bad at all. Never met a warlock who was actually useful before."

Merlin can't help but grin. Dean is ridiculously charming and it's been a long time since he's met anyone who made him smile. Looking at Dean now, really taking in the weathered lines on his face, the hunch of his shoulders, Merlin can see that he's not the only one who's survived a war while others were lost forever.

"Who was he?" Merlin asks, and when Dean knocks back the shot, slamming it down on the bar, Merlin wants to take it back, tell him to ignore it, tell him—

"His name was Sam," Dean says, quietly, as if it hurts too much to give the words any volume. "He was my— whatever, he's gone."

"And he's all you can think of?" Merlin asks.

"Yeah. Know the feeling, huh?"

Merlin nods. "I wish I could say it'll get easier with time, Dean, but—"

It really, really doesn't. It's been centuries, but it's like he lost Arthur mere hours ago. He's hollow, numb, like he's missing a huge piece of himself that he'll never get back no matter how much time passes.

"So," Dean says, voice gravelly and deep and cutting off Merlin's internal prattle, as Arthur used to call it, "you wanna get out of here? Car's parked outside."

Merlin takes a moment to look at him: leather jacket, black t-shirt, well-worn jeans and boots. He's a soldier, a warrior plain and simple, just like Arthur was, and Merlin knows without a doubt that he's going to say yes, he's been wanting to ever since Dean sat down next to him at the bar: cocky and beautiful and hiding so much pain under that smug smile. The similarities are devastating and he wonders if Dean is thinking the same thing about him: seeing his Sam in Merlin.

Merlin throws a twenty on the bar and follows Dean outside, hands in his pockets and his heart pounding in his chest.

***

Dean fucks him on scratchy sheets in a run-down motel room which looks like it hasn't seen a coat of paint since the day it was built. Fucks him facedown because it's easier for both of them that way, easier to pretend.

It's rough and it hurts and it's so fucking good. It's exactly what Merlin needs: being pushed down and taken, fingers and mouth bruising him and nothing gentle or loving about it, just raw fucking.

Even then, even though there's nothing in it that feels remotely like anything he and Arthur shared, he can't help his name spilling out when he comes, can't help wishing that when he turns over it'll be blue eyes he sees and not green.


End file.
